


Streaky

by WhatATime



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bat Brothers, Bat Family, Big Brother Jason Todd, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Love, Coping, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Good Big Brother Jason Todd, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Sleep Deprivation, Streaks, Talking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-19 23:50:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19366147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatATime/pseuds/WhatATime
Summary: Tim Drake is streaky. He’s the type to inadvertently skip breakfast, and consequently, go without it for the rest of the week. It’s an unconscious habit he can’t quite shake. He’s always on a streak for something, though he does his best not to keep count of the days or actions. It keeps him blissfully ignorant to any ramifications he would have to endure if he admitted his streaky fault.





	Streaky

Tim Drake is streaky. He’s the type to inadvertently skip breakfast, and consequently, go without it for the rest of the week. It’s an unconscious habit he can’t quite shake. He’s always on a streak for something, though he does his best not to keep count of the days or actions. It keeps him blissfully ignorant to any ramifications he would have to endure if he admitted his streaky fault.

 

This reasoning is why, at two o’clock in the morning on a Saturday, Tim Drake hides in a dark corner of the cave mapping out a patrol route he doesn’t plan on taking. His blue eyes dart from his tablet to the darkness in front of him every few seconds. He hates to feel caught, violated. Although tonight, it seems that’s what Jason Todd aims to do.

 

“Did you see the art room?” Jason asks, referring to what most call the Demon’s Den, Damian’s haven. It’s technically for all of them to recreate in, but no one goes in there except Damian, mostly because Damian’s always in there and it’s best to leave him alone and to his art. Jason turns to Tim. it’s obvious now he wants to start talking, to turn the wholly rhetorical question into a sincere one. “Well, did you?”

 

“No,” Tim says, eyes still on his device. He doesn’t want to talk to Jason or anyone else for that matter. He wants a quiet, peace-filled night that’s bleeding into dawn. He wants darkness.

 

Jason nods, and Tim now fears this is some sadistic plot he’s imbibing. “Kid paints a giant cat on the back wall, right…” He turns to Tim, waiting for response.

 

“Right.”

 

“B gets a pail of white paint… goes over the whole thing…”

 

“And?” Tim turns to Jason, interest piqued. The subtle war between the Batfamily’s youngest and patriarch is always an entertaining tale. Jason knows this-- why else would he being telling Tim? Now, though, he’s stopped, and Tim fears this is a plot, after all. “And, Jay?” he prompts.

 

Jason sighs, rests his head against the cave wall. His grayish-blue eyes swirl, glazed over. His lips are curved into a faint grin. “And the little demon re-painted the wall with an even bigger cat.” A small choked pitiful laugh.

 

Tim gives a smile back. “That’s funny,” he says.

 

Jason’s face washes away. “I thought so.”

 

“How was patrol for you?” Tim feels like talking now.

 

“Fine.” Fine is a beautiful word. Athena’s Nike, so to speak. Victory over the speechless and empty words. It’s full and plump. Jason’s pupils glide over to Tim. “And your patrol-less night?”

 

“It was…” Tim doesn’t know any other word besides fine, not a word that wouldn’t give way to revealing the streakiness that’s left him not more than four hours of sleep the past two weeks. He’s not sure how to break it.

 

“Uneventful.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Jason’s nose twitches. “Nice.” 

 

“I guess.”

 

“What’re you doing anyway?”

 

“Nothing, really.”

 

“Mmhm,” Jason hums.

 

They devolve into silence for a sad bout. They devolve into silence until Tim wants to hear Jason talk again.

 

“So, what’d B do?”

 

Jason’s eyes had long fluttered closed, but he opened them once roused. “Well… he’s in there right now, so I don’t know.”

 

“Why’d he care in the first place, though?”

 

“I think he was muttering something about Damian thinking everything belongs to him-- or no… something along those lines.”

 

“Was it funny?”

 

“Quite.” Jason sits up, takes a breath. “Well, I’m off, Little Bird.”

 

“Little Bird?”

 

Jason shrugs, stretching his arms and curling his socked toes. “Eh. Heard Shiva say it once… thought I’d try it.”

 

Tim stands as well. He unconsciously takes hold of a corner of the red hoodie Jason wears. His fingers rub the soft cotton. It’s definite Jason notices, but he doesn’t say anything.

 

They stalk to the kitchen, worrying the tile as they together come up with two mugs of peppermint tea and chewy chocolate cookies. Seats are found in the music room where both are grateful Damian is not. They sit in the corner, smushed together in an affectionate manner.

 

Jason sips. 

 

Tim gulps.

 

They both munch.

 

The silence is comforting. Neither of them have the wits to find the guts to say what they want to say. The cups are halfway full when the room is unmuted.

 

Tim lies his head before on Jason’s shoulder, mug tilting in his limping grasp. He tries to quietly suck in a breath, afraid to disrupt the delicate silence they’ve created. It’s nice, streak-breakingly nice. His muscles relax, lids drop.

 

Jason plucks the mug from Tim’s grip, folding Tim’s hands together before stretching to set the cups down. 

 

Tim hums. “I… I’m streaky, Jay.”

 

“Streaky?” Jason wraps an arm around Tim to pull him closer.

 

“Patterns.”

 

“Oh. Like days in a row and stuff?”

 

“...Yeah.”

 

“Must be hard.”

 

“Sometimes.” Tim pokes his bottom lip out. “Only sometimes. Patterns can be fun.”

 

“Not when you can’t sleep on your night off patrol.”

 

“I guess.” Tim can feel sleep coming. It settles over him, slowing his breath, making his limbs lead. The world turns to black, but it peeks out in navy when Jason sweeps him up. He pushes his papery lids open for a moment, but they can’t stay up for long.

 

“I got you, Timmy.”

 

“I know,” Tim mutters. “M’Streaky.”

 

“You sure are.”

**Author's Note:**

> Whatatime30 is my tumblr


End file.
